It was a sunny day when I first set eyes on Arcow Quarry. I had been sent by Tarmac from a brief posting at Cockermouth to take up the position of Trainee Manager.
I had followed the Area Manager in my Ford Escort 1.3XL from Heversham, getting my first glimpses of the Yorkshire Dales and finally making my anticipated arrival. I can’t say that my new boss, Nat, was too impressed. He looked up from his grubby desk to acknowledge my entrance. He had obviously been looking forward immensely to having to look after a clueless university graduate dropped into a completely alien environment, to eventually become a Quarry Manager (maybe even at Arcow – God forbid!).
I was offered one of those mugs of tea that clearly show that there are only primitive washing-up facilities on the premises. The Area Manager, Gordon, was aware Nat saw me as an imposition, and was keen to depart as soon after the tea ceremony as possible. He left Nat and I sitting either side of a small desk weighing each other up. Nat wasn’t a great conversationalist and was grateful for the frequent interruptions by the phone – “ ‘Orton-in-Ribblesdale 202” was the much repeated greeting to anyone at the other end. Nat had made no excuses for the fact that he was in the middle of his lunch: sandwiches made with Jacob’s Cream Crackers. I later learnt that this daily pack-up was fashioned by his own fair hand, as his wife had long since given up trying to satisfy his exacting requirements. He would still be chewing on his cracker sandwiches when he answered the phone, splattering wet crumbs into the mouthpiece; not pleasant when you have to answer in his stead!
He was naturally in awe of my higher education and wasted no time in illustrating the fact. Taking me outside, I found us standing next to an old, discarded household bath. “I bet tha’s one of those that uses all thy fancy education to work out ‘ow much watter that would ‘old?” Heavy suck on the pipe hanging from his mouth, followed by a smug smile and a bounce up and down on his toes. “Does tha know what I’d do?” I thought it best to admit that I couldn’t imagine what he would do. He snorted, “I fill the ****** with water, take the plug out and measure it with that ******* jug!”
Over the next days I was introduced to the many characters working at this magnificent quarry. And don’t get me wrong, I really do mean that Arcow was the best quarry I ever worked at, because of the people. What a fantastic set of workers, all characters in their own right and all welcoming of the new offcomed’un trainee. They probably saw me as the new sport, and Nat’s new plaything. “That lad’s a tick on my back,” he was reported as having said; a gift to the resident nickname maker, so from thenceforth I was known as Billy Tick. (I believe the nickname maker is still at large in these parts, so I shall avoid naming him here for fear of causing offence. I tell these tales with the greatest of affection for those involved, but it does concern me that some may think them too irreverent.)
Previous assignments had taken me to quarries in Llanwrst, Buxton and Eagesfield, all with their own attributes, but here I was to be given time to settle in and get to know all the colourful characters. I have to thank them all for tolerating me and letting me enjoy their own brands of humour and mischief. I should probably add that so welcoming was the whole local community that I ended up marrying one of their daughters and have lived here ever since, in spite of having quarrying jobs all over Yorkshire.
So, with some trepidation I offer you a tale at the expense of one of my friends at Arcow and refer to him only by his nickname. Lurch was the butt of many a set-up by his workmates and the occasion of the visit from Charles the Regional Manager was no exception. Charles wafted into the quarry that morning in his Mercedes to see Nat and Gordon (who had turned up for the pleasure). He was right up Nat’s street – a typical hooray Henry, full of airs and graces and so obviously very important.
After his mug of tea, he was eager to get out into the quarry (not too far out of course) to see what went on in one of his lowly outposts. He was in for a treat today as the lads had bet Lurch that he couldn’t hold a twenty-pound digger tooth between his own teeth, dangling only from a tatty length of wire rope. Such things were available at the primary crusher ready for use as wedges to encourage reticent rocks into the crusher jaws. Lurch proudly demonstrated that he could indeed succeed in the task and appeared from the crusher-house door with the heavy article already suspended from his copious jaw. As this was plainly too easy for our hero, it was then suggested that he would surely not be able to transport the said weight, still suspended from his mouth, all the way down to the Fitting Shop? Lurch was not one to shirk from a challenge and duly set off on his slow purposeful journey down through the yard, head down and eyes looking at the ground due to the immense weight.
His progress was eagerly witnessed by his tormentors as well as those innocents further down who wondered what on Earth was going on. Let’s count Charles as one of those innocents and imagine his reaction to seeing Lurch heading for the very spot outside the Fitting Shop where he was standing. Gordon, Nat and myself were shifting nervously from foot to foot as Charles, misfit hard hat on his bouffant head and in smart city navy blue overcoat, was trying to make sense of the spectacle. Lurch arrived and dropped the digger tooth at the feet of the waiting Charles, like a dog returning the stick to his master. He straightened his aching back and grunted in Charles’s direction. Anxious glances were cast around the management reception committee. Not a word was said – by anyone! What was there to say? We headed back into the office; Gordon took us out to lunch and the whole thing was never mentioned. Except, after everyone had gone their separate ways, Gordon turned to me with an exasperated “What the ****!”
Robert Binstead
